


Like a Wind (Like a Ghost)

by lyonet



Series: Do We Live [4]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Credence's POV, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Grindelwald being generally creepy, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Domestic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 00:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9297062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyonet/pseuds/lyonet
Summary: Credence is getting used to jumping in a fire and taking it on faith that he won’t get burned to death; so much magic, he thinks, depends upon faith.





	

_Truth: You are a wicked, unnatural creature._

The boy called Credence did not exist until the day Mary-Lou Barebone came into the overcrowded Brooklyn orphanage and found a little urchin with uncombed curls and no shoes kneeling at the window so that he could watch the people go by in the street below. By then he had been living in the orphanage for three years. He did not remember his mother, which sometimes made him sad, because he knew that mothers were nice to have from seeing them go by outside, doting over prams and laughing with their rambunctious toddlers. The boy also knew that if he was very good, he might be adopted. The matron had told him so. He tried to be good.

Of all the children in the city – those were the words she would use later, every time she told this story, which was often – Mary-Lou chose to take him home, to become a part of her family. First she settled things with the matron, who told her what was known about the boy’s parents (unmarried mother, unnamed father, no sign of other relatives inclined towards getting involved). Then she looked at the little boy and said, thoughtfully, “From now on, you’re going to be called Credence. That’s a better name.” And so he was.

The thing she did after that was cut his hair. She would come to hate his hair, over the years – it always grew back so fast. He never had curls again.

Mary-Lou already had a girl at home called Chastity, who was going to be Credence’s sister. Chastity was six, gap-toothed and freckled, already mimicking their Ma’s authority. She was happiest telling Credence what to do and he, eager to do right but not sure how, was happiest doing what she said. Their days were filled with chores and lessons. After supper Mary-Lou would sit them down side by side at her feet and read to them, usually from the Bible but sometimes from a book of fables, because she approved of the morals in it. It was Credence’s favourite time of day. He learned the stories by heart so that he could repeat them back to Chastity when they were out in the snow or scrubbing the cold floor, or doing anything else when he needed to distract himself.

Every night, before she sent them up to bed, Mary-Lou would look searchingly into their faces and lay her hand on top of each small head. “God is watching,” she would say. And Credence felt safe.

*

_Lie: You deserve to be here._

Credence wakes early on the morning of Queenie’s last day in the brownstone. He usually does. The room he sleeps in used to be a closet but was magicked to three times its original size; Tina Transfigured a pillow into the most comfortable mattress he’s ever known and Queenie hung a mirror on the wall that offers Credence chirpy instructions on how to improve his style (Credence does not take most of these instructions. The mirror does not have hard feelings). In the face of the Goldsteins’ endless generosity, the least Credence can do is make them breakfast.

Tina is already up when he comes out, sitting bleary-eyed at the table, a little cluster of owls perched on the dresser while she scribbles answering notes for them to deliver with a frown on her face. She was up late as well, with the books of wizarding law that she swears at when she thinks Credence isn’t listening. She smiles at him distractedly as he goes to put the kettle on. There’s ink smudged all over her cheek.

“You’re meeting Mr Graves at twelve,” she tells him. “He’s arranged to have an hour free.”

Credence fumbles the kettle. He nods, keeping his suddenly hot face turned away from her.

“You don’t have to see him alone if you don’t want to…” Tina begins, misinterpreting his silence.

“I’m not afraid of him,” Credence says quickly, guessing what she is going to say next. “He’s not afraid of me, either.”

“That’s because you’re not frightening, Credence,” Tina says fondly. She goes back to her note while Credence moves quietly behind her, cracking eggs and slicing bread, thinking about what happened the last time he was alone with Mr Graves, wondering if it will happen again.

But now is not the time to be indulging in breathless speculation. Queenie will be up soon and Credence wants breakfast perfect, to start this important day right. Most of her things are packed; Tina brought boxes and the sisters did the job together last night. It doesn’t look very much, piled up – Queenie wouldn’t take her half of the inherited furniture that fills this apartment, saying that Tina needed it more. Which made Tina cry. Which made Queenie cry.

To avoid a repeat of all that, they don’t talk to each other much over breakfast. Queenie keeps looking at Tina sadly, hearing whatever she isn’t saying, but Tina puts a forcefully cheerful face on the situation, drinks a lot of coffee and tells Credence all about Newt’s latest letter, which arrived just this morning.

(“Why does he use parchment instead of letter paper?” Credence had asked timidly, when the first one arrived, and Queenie had replied, rolling her eyes, “English wizards. _So_ medieval.”)

Newt is a better correspondant than he is conversationalist, writing to all of them regularly, though most often to Tina. “We both come across better on paper,” she said once, only getting away with it because Queenie wasn’t there and Credence was still nervous about disagreeing with her. “Anyway, it’s nice to have someone to talk to at three in the morning, even if he’s not here to hear it.” She gets newspapers too. Newt’s capture of Grindelwald has attracted a great deal of attention and since his return to London he’s starting writing a column called Newt’s Field Notes for the wizarding paper there. Tina makes a point of reading it.

 _I think the Daily Prophet would like more heroic exploits and less Bowtruckles,_ Newt writes, _but it’s a good opportunity to educate the public! Of course I have lots of notes to draw on and I mean to write about my travels too. People like stories about far away places, don’t they? Even if I was only there for Acromantulas and didn’t notice the scenery? London is very noisy, as always. Luckily, my flat is very nice. It came fully furnished and I found a Boggart in the wardrobe! I plan on doing a proper study of its habits as soon as I have time. Can you believe, nobody knows yet what they eat?_

The rest of the letter has the same upbeat tone, but Credence thinks Newt sounds lonely, like he’d rather be here in person. Tina stuffs the scroll in her coat pocket so that she can write a reply during her lunch hour and stands up, telling Queenie tightly “owl me if you need an extra pair of hands” before Apparating off to work.

Queenie sighs. She runs a finger around the patterned rim of her plate, a little scuffed from many years of use, then gently flicks her wand and sends it into the sink. “Well,” she says. “Better get on with it, then.”

Jacob is already living in the apartment above the bakery. He wanted to get it just right before Queenie arrived; Credence helped repaint the walls and move in furniture a week ago. With typical Jacob instinct, he left the sisters to say their goodbyes in private (as private as it could be, with Credence living there too) but he comes over while the dishes are still washing themselves up in the sink so that he and Queenie can make a list of all the things they’ve got left to do. Or rather, Queenie is making the list, plucking the ideas out of his head as she goes and smiling when he thinks nice things about her handwriting.

“Deliveries,” she says suddenly. “Jacob, we need a delivery boy.”

“Wow, princess, you’re right. Better get one quick, huh.”

Credence is sitting at the table, bent over a book and trying to wrap his head around the concept of Animagi. He becomes aware that he is meant to contribute to the conversation when Queenie looks at him expectantly.

“It’s pretty short notice, honey,” she says, “but would you help a girl out?”

Credence says yes. This is Queenie, after all; he would have said yes if she’d had a sudden urgent use for his liver. It takes five minutes of her explaining what the work will entail to recognise this is a scheme to make him accept more charity. “Don’t be silly,” she scolds, the second this thought pops into his head. “We need someone around here who can handle, well, me. You’re a wizard, but you know all about No-Majs, you know your way around the city. You’re perfect.”

Credence doesn’t feel like a wizard. He is really anything other than perfect. But he doesn’t argue with her; Queenie always wins arguments. “I’ll do my best.”

He has been doing his best for weeks, ever since his worst nearly destroyed New York and he came to in a ruined subway tunnel with Queenie bent over him, her eyes the kindest thing he had ever seen in his life, and Newt saying ‘it’s all right now, Credence, it’s going to be all right’. It was the sort of thing you would say to a hurt child. That is how Newt saw him, most likely still does see him. Hurt. Innocent.

Credence is not innocent.

*

_Truth: She was right to hate you._

They moved around the city, chasing cheaper rent. Mary-Lou was secretary at a printing press, but it didn’t pay very much and she had three mouths to feed. Her temper was sometimes short in the evenings. Credence was used to the scoldings and impatient smacks of the matron at the orphanage; he took the occasional beating and knew he was luckier than other children, whose fathers drank their wages and whose mothers cried behind the thin apartment walls. Mary-Lou never cried. And she never hit him so hard he wouldn’t heal in a day or two.

The first thing Mary-Lou did whenever they moved to a new place was to visit the nearest churches. She would not let the children come with her until she had heard a sermon herself. There was one preacher she liked very much, a big man with a booming voice who talked about the Devil who walked among them, disguised as their fellow man. “Beware, Christians!” he roared down from the pulpit. “Beware the path to the fiery Pit, paved as it is with the lies of the Devil’s servants!”

Mary-Lou went up to him after the sermon and they talked for a long time while Credence and Chastity played hopscotch in the gathering dusk outside. Chastity was quicker on her feet. Credence kept getting distracted by thinking about what the Devil looked like and how he might disguise himself. Surely people would see his horns and know?

“You met a good man today, children,” Mary-Lou said when they finally went home. “Pray that we will find others in this city as committed to the goodness of the cause.”

“Mama,” Credence said, tugging on her hand. She walked so fast and he was getting left behind. “Mama. What’s the cause?”

She gazed ahead, buoyed by a vision only she could see. “There is such wickedness in this world, Credence,” she said. “I’ve seen it for myself. When I was a little girl, everybody said I was lying, but God was with me and I held onto my truth. Now we are going to share that truth.”

She squeezed their hands – Chastity on the right, Credence on the left.

“Witches are real,” she said. “The Devil’s servants walk among us, and they must be stopped.”

*

_Lie: This is where you belong._

So now Credence has a job. And a bicycle. Tina and Queenie were doubtful about the bicycle, but Jacob backed Credence on that one, pointing out that Floo Powder was not exactly an option when delivering to No-Majs and did either of the witches know how to get around the city without Apparating? (They did not. Tina made an appalled face at the very idea of using the subway and left the room when Jacob tried to explain street cabs.)

Credence has not had paid work in a long time, since he was sixteen. That, he thinks, is when his Ma realised that a paycheck meant too much independence and she decided to keep him at home. His last day at the printers was probably the best chance he ever had to get away, but the idea did not even occur to him at the time. Though Credence understood the theory of a life without Mary-Lou’s rules governing his life, like commandments direct from the heavens, he could not envision it in a way that made the possibility tangible.

The night Queenie moves in, which is the night before the bakery officially opens, they celebrate with a small party. Tina brings over the gramophone from the apartment and enchants a pile of records to float around it, changing themselves every time a song ends. Some of the music is jazz, which Credence knows a little from hearing it floating out of windows or played by buskers in the street, but there is also singing in a language he doesn’t know. “Yiddish,” Queenie tells him, waving her wand to refill his glass with champagne. He’s not sure he likes the taste, it’s so fizzy and strange, but he needs to get used to strange things and he drinks it anyway.

Sometimes he cannot believe he is here. The Goldsteins are the epitome of everything Mary-Lou ever stood against – they are witches, and Jewish, Queenie is living in sin with the man she loves, Tina wears trousers. Queenie knows the thoughts Credence cannot help broadcasting about Mr Graves every time Tina mentions his name and she does not judge him for what, in his world, is not just a sin but also a crime. Only that’s not his world any more. The Goldsteins opened their lives to Credence, put their trust in him. He tries to live up to it.

The party goes on until late. Tina has too much giggle water and keels off her chair in a fit of hysterical laughter. She doesn’t bother getting up once she recovers, idly conjuring up little flames in different colours that drift around the room like soap bubbles. Jacob and Queenie push back the table and do a Charleston in the middle of the floor. Jacob pleads off after two dances but Queenie has all the energy in the world, as if the happiness in the room is filling her up with a shimmering, crackling electricity. She beckons Credence over and teaches him the steps so that he can dance with her instead. Jacob cheers the first time he gets through it right.

The only thing that could make this night happier is if Mr Graves was here, but Credence does not think he is the kind of man who comes to parties unless he has to. “He might,” Queenie says, shaking out her hair as the record comes to an end and a new one takes its place. “If you ask him nicely.” She knows about the kiss – Credence has not been able to stop thinking about it – but she hasn’t told anyone or pushed him to talk about it. He thinks, embarrassed, that it must annoy her to be subjected to the same giddy memory so often, and she swats his nose lightly for being silly.

He sleeps at the bakery that night. Queenie conjures up mattresses out of pincushions, which are not very soft but are much better than lying on the floor. Tina falls asleep straight away. Credence watches through heavy eyes as Queenie goes around extinguishing the coloured flames and Jacob puts away the glasses. Their paths around the kitchen meet and there’s a moment when they stand close together, just smiling at each other, as if it’s dawning on them both all over again that they get to _keep_ each other.

“If there’s a luckier man in Manhattan,” Jacob says, then stops and says, “I don’t believe in him.”

He puts one hand carefully on Queenie’s back, his fingers on bare skin where her dress dips, and leans up to kiss her. The last thing Credence hears before he slides into sleep is Queenie’s soft laugh and her saying, “Aw, sweetie. Does my hair really look like sunshine?”

*

_Truth: You can’t be trusted._

Chastity was thirteen and Credence was eleven when Mary-Lou came home one day and told them to pack. Chastity did as she was told. Credence did not. They had not been in the building very long, but he liked this apartment – the old man who lived down the hall gave him peppermint candy when he helped carry in his groceries and he could pet the cat who lived with the lady upstairs. “Ma,” he said, pulling on her sleeve, “I don’t want to go.”

Two things happened then. She shook him off, exasperated, and the locked front door blew open so fast it slammed into the landing wall with a violent thud.

Mary-Lou went quiet, the kind of quiet that had sharp edges. She went to the door and looked at the hinges. She examined the outside handle, crusted white with plaster where it had gone into the wall. Then she came back inside, looked at Credence and said, “Pack now or I throw your things away.”

She meant what she said. So he packed.

The old church was drafty and dark, but Mary-Lou had a vision for it and set the children to work cleaning. She was still very quiet. “You did something bad, didn’t you,” Chastity whispered to Credence as they scrubbed the floor, but he didn’t know what he had done, so he was quiet too.

They were not supposed to associate with other children (“Little heathens,” Mary-Lou would say, eyeing the parents with fierce disapproval. “You’ll pick up bad habits.”) so when they played, it was with each other. If the weather was good, they chased around in the street; on cold days, they would sit by the stove and re-enact scenes from the Bible. Chastity always wanted to play Mary, which meant Credence had to be the archangel Gabriel, come to tell her that she would give birth to Jesus. Sometimes he was also Joseph, Herod and a respectful shepherd.

“Maybe Ma will get married,” Chastity said once or twice, hopefully, “and then she could have a baby.”

But of course Mary-Lou didn’t need a husband for that – the next time she decided there was space in her own little congregation, two years later, she went to an orphanage and brought home a baby girl. “You have to set her a good example,” Mary-Lou instructed. “From now on I shall be watching, to make sure you are good children who can be trusted with this innocent.”

But she was looking at Credence when she said it, and it was him who was watched.

*

_Lie: He wants you as much as you want him._

When Credence leaves the apartment, it is usually by Floo powder. He is getting used to jumping in a fire and taking it on faith that he won’t get burned to death; so much magic, he thinks, depends upon faith. When he leaves on foot he has to sneak downstairs to keep Tina’s landlady from knowing he’s there. Tina feels bad about that, but Credence is accustomed to keeping quiet, and he never had silencing spells for his shoes before. His bicycle is kept at the bakery, to save trouble.

Getting into Graves’ apartment is tricky no matter how you approach it. He likes it that way. His fireplace is not only disconnected from the Floo network, there is an active block to prevent anyone putting in a connection any time in the next fifty years, and nobody except Graves himself can Apparate in or out. Portkeys (Credence has just learned about Portkeys, Tina took him into work and showed him the ones that had been picked up on raids) cannot be enchanted with the co-ordinates to the apartment. It is as if that particular space in the universe has, magically speaking, been very precisely erased off the map. And that’s before you get into the protective spells, misdirection spells and the cursed wallpaper that turns into flesh-eating plants at the presence of dark magic.

The safest way inside is being invited through the front door (this may be the only safe way inside. Credence hasn’t tested it, he doesn’t really want his face ripped off by a Tentacula) and the easiest way to get there is to walk. It’s a nice building, nicer than Credence is used to. He keeps his head down as he climbs the stairs. He’d rather not become somebody Graves has to explain away, any more than he already is.

Graves opens the door on the first knock. He’s sitting in the kitchen doing paperwork and gestures for Credence to come inside, before flicking his hand at the door to close it. The sight of him makes Credence’s heart vibrate like a plucked string, as it always does. Mr Graves is what confidence looks like. Even here, where he is at his most relaxed – shirtsleeves rolled up, waistcoat unbuttoned, strands of dark hair falling across his face where he’s been running a frustrated hand through it – there’s an exactness to his movements that speaks of many years training to be the first person in the room to fight back.

He smiles for Credence and pushes back his chair. “You’re early.”

Credence flushes. “I’m sorry – I didn’t want to waste your time…”

“You don’t.” Graves comes closer. Not quite close enough to touch; Credence is not sure he dares anyway. It has been four days since he was last in this kitchen, his fingers in that hair, those arms around his waist. Four days since Credence cried himself out against Graves’ chest, until the ache in his chest almost didn’t hurt any more and, with the steady beat of Graves’ heart under his ear, he thought he’d found out what peace felt like. It does not seem likely that will happen again.

“How are you?” Graves asks. He always asks that. Credence never knows what to say.

“I’m very well, sir.”

Graves winces at the automatic ‘sir’ and Credence instantly wishes he could take it back. “Do you want coffee?” Graves asks, after a moment. Credence doesn’t risk words this time, just nods. He doesn’t really like coffee, but it will be something to do with his hands.

He feels so out of place here. Graves’ apartment contains the bare minimals but even these are well-made, elegant, chosen by someone who can afford to furnish his home the way he likes it. Credence does not see much from the old apartment. He does not suppose much survived Grindelwald’s occupation. Graves gives him a bone-white cup filled with aromatic coffee, softened by milk and sweetened with sugar – not the way Graves himself drinks it. Credence murmurs his thanks.

Something brushes against his leg. The Niffler is nuzzling pointedly against his trouser leg. “Oh, damn,” Graves sighs. “Seraphina’s got the beast addicted to custard creams. Hold on.” He summons a biscuit tin and hands it over to Credence. It looks very new. Credence opens it and holds out the biscuit; he laughs, delighted, when the Niffler licks it neatly out of his hand, crunching the treat down without losing a crumb. In return, it lets Credence pet the soft, thick quills at its neck for a few minutes before it scurries off about its own business.

“Does it live with you?” he asks Graves.

“According to Mr Scamander’s many letters,” Graves says dourly, “Nifflers have burrows, but this one seems happy enough with the cupboard under the kitchen sink. That said, I think it’s been digging into the wall as well. The door doesn’t open any more, so I can’t check.”

There was a short silence as they both drank their coffee in synchronised avoidance of the awkward elephant that had accompanied Credence into the room.

“Before we start,” Graves says, lowering his cup, “I wanted to talk to you about – what happened.”

 _What happened_. The words are distancing. Credence remembers, against his will, a beloved voice gone cold and dismissive, and the icy recognition that this man he wanted so badly did not truly want him at all. He doesn’t answer.

“I wanted it,” Graves says quietly, trying to meet his eye. “I still want it. Do you?”

“Yes.” Credence’s voice come out very thin. The cup is burning his fingers – he’s holding on too tight. “Why are you asking? I said, I told you…”

“I know. But I need us to understand each other. I’m in a position of authority, I’m older, our history is – best described as complicated. I don’t want you to ever feel you have to give me what I want if you don’t want it too. This can’t go anywhere unless I know that you can say no to me.” He waits for an answer, and doesn’t get one. “Credence?”

“What happens,” Credence asks, tonelessly, “if I say no?”

“I stop.”

“Stop what?”

“What you ask me to.”

Credence finally lets him catch his eye. “Can we stop talking?”

Graves gives a huff of surprised laughter. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Credence says. He spreads out his hands, offers up a jerky shrug. “I don’t know what there is to want. Everything is different. I don’t – understand you, I wish I did. I don’t know why you want me.” He gulps, trying to keep back the tears in his eyes. “You have always been my friend. I trust you.”

Graves makes a tight, wounded sound. “Credence.”

“Tell me,” Credence pleads. “Tell me what I can have.”

He closes his eyes when Graves’ hand brushes over his cheek, warm and careful. It slides down to cup his jaw, fingertips in his hair, thumb brushing against his lower lip. When he breathes out, shaky, he hears Graves sigh, and he sounds shaky too.

“You can have anything.”

*

_Truth: You deserved it._

There had always been beatings. The belt was new.

Credence was growing too fast, too tall, and he kept making mistakes. It felt sometimes as if the wicked thoughts in his head could escape and become real. When he was tired of shovelling snow, it started to melt; when he wished Mary-Lou’s preacher would please stop and let them go home, the man started coughing and wouldn’t stop. And she knew, somehow. When something went wrong in the house, Mary-Lou’s eye would fall on Credence. Soon Chastity started looking at him the same way – mistrusting. The way they looked at people who doubted the cause.

Modesty was too little to go far without being carried and Credence (as he was frequently reminded) was the worst at making people accept his pamphlets, so he was the one who usually carried her. She was the only one who smiled at him. Some nights Mary-Lou’s friends would come around – Chastity had started calling them ‘followers’ - and the talking would go on until late. Modesty already knew not to go to Ma if she wanted something. She’d totter down the hall to Credence instead and tug on his blanket until he woke up.

She was puzzled by the raw red lines on his palms. “Are you burnt?” she asked worriedly.

“Clumsy,” he told her.

He was fifteen when Mary-Lou left her job. She had ‘made arrangements’, which meant Credence going to work at the printers instead. “Don’t talk to people,” she instructed. “There are all sorts there, but you need to know the work.” He was sixteen when the New Salem Philanthropic Society became official and his skills were put to use making pamphlets. He was eighteen the first time Mary-Lou beat him so badly that he bled through his shirt and had to wash red out of his sheets in the morning. By then Modesty knew where the marks on his palm came from. She had them too, sometimes. Chastity hardly ever did. She had folded herself up like a paper doll; if she ever disagreed with their Ma, it didn’t show.

Credence was twenty three when he woke up in the mud outside the church, shivering, unable to remember how he got there. The newspapers that day talked about a gas explosion and he recognised the street – it was nearby, a corner where Mary-Lou had planned to give a speech later that day. Maybe, Credence thought, the sound had woken him up and he had wandered out here, dazed by sleep.

But he did not quite believe that.

*

_Lie: He loves you._

It begins slowly. Graves is being careful and Credence doesn’t know what he’s doing. They stand by the table until Graves slides his hand from Credence’s hip to the small of his back, and Credence’s mouth opens on a small gasp, and the kiss is suddenly deeper, messy, wet and frantic. Credence doesn’t notice himself being moved until his back hits the wall. It’s good, he has Graves’ arms on either side of him, elbows braced while they kiss so hard that Credence’s jaw aches. He moans, unthinkingly digging his nails into Graves’ back. He wants to be closer. He needs –

“Show me, show me,” he implores. He doesn’t know the words to ask for anything.

Graves pulls back. His eyes are wide; he looks hungry, as if Credence is a feast and he’s running out of reasons not to sit at the banquet table. “All right,” he breathes. “I’ll show you.”

He runs his palms down Credence’s arms, gentling him, mouthing kisses against his throat and pulling his collar aside when it gets in the way. “May I?” he asks. Credence nods mindlessly and a minute later his tie is on the floor, closely followed by his shirt. Graves’ palms slide over his back, catching on the raised lines of healed-over welts, cradling the sharp wings of his shoulder blades and bringing him in close to kiss again. Credence gasps when the touch of lips and tongue moves down his chest, his whole body jolting at the slight nip of teeth. Graves goes to his knees, holding Credence firmly by the hips to keep him in place. He looks up.

“Do I stop?” he asks, eyebrows lifted inquiringly. He looks calm. His breathing says otherwise.

Credence shakes his head. He makes a humiliating noise of want when Graves unfastens his trousers and takes his cock in hand. Graves kisses along the sharp angles of Credence’s hipbones and it’s probably meant as a tease but for Credence it is almost too much. He has never been touched like this before: as if it is both pleasure and privilege. Graves takes him in his mouth and Credence makes that noise again, beyond words, groping at the broad shoulders below him for some grip to hold him upright.

“Please,” he says. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for. _Please don’t stop wanting this._

Graves pulls off and eyes him consideringly. “We can move to the bed, if you want.”

Credence nods some more. He is led into the bedroom, dimmer than the kitchen with the curtains drawn, and is maneuvered onto his back on the bed. Graves combs stray curls out of his face and says, “If you don’t mind my asking, what the hell happened to your hair?”

“You don’t like it?”

Graves tangles his fingers deeper and tugs lightly. “Oh, I like it.”

His free hand slides down and Credence closes his eyes. Graves is not being quite so careful now, his touch is more demanding. Credence knows he should be reciprocating somehow but it’s taking everything he has to withstand the lovely torture already being inflicted. He scrabbles at the back of Graves’ waistcoat, trying to get at the skin underneath.

“Hm.” Graves sits back on his heels and grins at Credence’s protesting sound. “I recall I’m meant to be showing you magic. Pay attention to this part.”

He flicks his wand and his clothes neatly remove themselves, layer after layer, floating away to lay out for later wear. Even distracted as he is, Credence is fascinated. He knows how much work goes into tending clothes the No-Maj way. He and Chastity used to spend the whole day at it, every Monday morning. It is so different for wizards. Queenie’s version of doing laundry is applying a few stern words to a sink of soapy water and sitting nearby with a book until the wet clothes are ready for a drying spell; Tina irons wrinkles out of her shirts with a hasty pat of her wand and a muttered spell on her way out the door to work. Indulging the sin of sloth, Credence thinks, but it’s not his thought and he pushes it away.

Graves murmurs spells in his ear, soft and low. The lamp by the bed blooms alight, the sheets roll down, the pillows shift around to prop Credence up at just the right angle to be kissed. “Magic is for you, Credence,” Graves whispers, biting gently at his neck.

Credence takes hold of his courage and Graves’ arms, and rolls them over, so that Graves – looking amused – is lying on his back and Credence is astride his waist. “Can I,” Credence asks, hands hovering uncertainly in midair. The stretch of warm skin beneath him tugs his attention in too many directions and he has the lingering feeling he shouldn’t really be looking. Graves catches his wrists and tugs him forward, sparking a friction that has Credence moaning into his mouth.

“I told you. You can have anything,” Graves tells him. Credence’s body responds to the deep purr of his voice, grinding down with a fervent, instinctive rhythm. When Graves brings his hands back into play, that’s it, it’s over – Credence’s elbows give way and he collapses against Graves’ chest, pleasure washing through him in a blinding wave. It takes him some time to recover enough to realise it’s not quite over for Graves. Red-faced, he reaches down and tries to copy the smooth, playful motions that Graves used on him. It works; Graves tips his head back hard against the pillow and groans as he follows Credence into orgasm.

They lie together afterwards, Credence laying his head on Graves’ stomach, drowsily arching into the hand that is petting his hair. He’s never been so comfortable in his life. After a while, Graves sighs. “I should have cleared two hours,” he says, scraping his fingernails along Credence’s scalp.

“Do you have to leave soon?” Credence asks, disappointed.

“We have…” Graves holds out a hand and his watch zips into it. “Eighteen minutes before I need to return to work. I’d stretch it if I could, but the President has asked for my presence at one of those interminable meetings with the English representatives and she needs all the help she can get.”

Credence goes still. “They want to take Grindelwald.”

Graves holds him tighter. “Yes,” he says, baldly. “They’re not the only ones, but everyone else would be satisfied if he was executed on American soil. I see Albus Dumbledore’s hand in this. He was a sympathiser once – not any longer, I’m fairly sure, but I believe he is exerting what pressure he can to bring about a trial in England.”

“Why?” Credence whispers.

“We all make stupid mistakes sometimes,” Graves says wearily. “Wizards more than No-Majs, I think – our stupid is on a much grander scale. It’s tempting to think, with a ‘reparo!’ at your wand-tip, that there’s no need to take care, because everything can be fixed.”

Credence thinks of the church as it was the night he left it, dark and broken. “Some things can’t.”

“No,” Graves agrees grimly. “They can’t. Grindelwald chose to endanger us all. Now he has to pay the price for everything he burned along the way.”

*

_Truth: You knew what you were doing._

Grindelwald.

Credence first heard the name in a diner, when he was swallowing down a bowl of hot soup as fast as he could and listening to the exasperated complaints of the dapper, enigmatic Mr Graves, who appeared in his life at apparently random moments, like an improbable guardian angel. Only, he was a wizard – did that make him a guardian demon? Credence wondered about things like that, picking apart sermons in his head the way he used to pick apart stories, before they all got worn down to the bone and he had none left.

Graves talked about novels sometimes, and plays. That day he was talking about politics so strange it was like a story from a book. The wicked sorcerer who disappeared from the heroes’ grasp, the cursed Aurors he left in his wake. “Dramatic fucker,” Graves muttered darkly, more to himself than Credence. He shook his head and visibly pulled himself out of thoughts of work. “Anyway, my apologies for not coming earlier. Tell me how you’ve been.”

That was how it was: curtly sincere inquiries into Credence’s life, details remembered so that Credence never needed to repeat himself. Hot meals and a hand on his back, guiding him along through parts of the city Credence had never seen before. Credence had been aware from the start that every time Graves came to see him, he was carving time away from something more important, but Graves never mentioned it except as an apology when he stayed away for more than a few days.

Grindelwald had worn his face well. It was probably not, Credence thought later, the first time he had walked around wearing somebody else’s life. He was too skilled a mimic for that. He had been watching the two of them, he knew how Graves moved and touched and talked.

The only thing he didn’t know was what Credence was. That was because Credence didn’t either.

He dreamed of storm clouds, of smoke and fog. Sometimes there were faces in the dark. They screamed and Credence woke, a roil of dread sending him pitching out of bed onto all fours, choking up bile. He was almost grateful on the nights his back or thighs hurt too much for sleep.

 _Like a wind,_ the papers said, after yet another ‘gas explosion’. Credence saw them held aloft by the newsboys on street corners and thought, _no._ He held on tighter to Modesty’s hand. Every time the man wearing Graves’ face asked him, urgently, for news of the prophesied child, Credence dredged up a new reason not to answer. Modesty, he knew, would be safest away from the church. She was not like Chastity – she had questions and sometimes she could not always bite them down. But if he brought her to Graves, and he was wrong…if she was not who he was looking for, if she never had been, if the terror of the city was elsewhere…

 _No,_ Credence told himself. _No._

And then he was out of choices. Ma stood over Modesty with the belt, so angry, white-lipped and ready to strike. Credence screamed and the sound turned to darkness, a living, raging thing tearing through the air. The storm had come. It did not have a stunted love for the woman who whipped its host; it did not remember telling stories to an older sister while she scrubbed the floor. All it knew was that it was hurting. So it made the pain go away.

Until Credence woke up in the ruins, and his next scream was nothing but air.

*

_Lie: None of it was your fault._

They get dressed with a little time to spare. Graves’ waistcoat shakes itself out before sliding over his shoulders and Credence suddenly wants to laugh, though that is an impulse he’s good at repressing. Graves always has to have everything done right.

“How does it work?” Credence asks, sitting on the bed while Graves fixes his tie in the mirror (his keeps its opinions to itself). “You live in a No-Maj building. How can you not know any No-Majs?”

“By not being neighbourly. It’s difficult,” Graves said, deadpan, “but I manage it. The law does not prohibit casual contact – for instance, I can go into any No-Maj restaurant and order a meal, or hold a conversation about the weather on the street, with no consequences whatsoever. Legal convictions over forming friendships with No-Majs are very rare, thanks to the subjectivity of the allegation and the general disinclination our kind have to seek out those friends in the first place. In the wizarding world, we all tend to know one another. In some ways it’s more like a very large family, after so many intermarriages down the centuries.”

Graves turned around, tie in place. “As for marrying No-Majs, well, it can’t be done legally on our side and any romantic attachment is considered dangerous as it may produce non-magical offspring. The legal waters there are _very_ muddy. Any child of a witch or wizard has a right to live in our world, but that doesn’t mean they’re welcome.”

Credence looks away from him, at the wall with its pretty, lethal wallpaper. “What do you think?”

“Of the law?” Graves comes slowly over to him, taking a moment to answer. “I’ve spent my entire adult life defending it. Wizards are not like No-Majs. There’s no use in pretending that there would be anything other than war if they knew what we are – history has provided ample evidence, from the Spanish Inquistion to Salem right here in America. Grindelwald wasn’t wrong about everything.” He catches the look on Credence’s face and smiles ruefully. “I hate thinking it, let alone saying it, but it’s true. That’s why he has so many followers. A great many very respectable witches and wizards look at No-Majs as a completely different species, and the way we live our lives makes it very easy for them to do so.”

“But what do _you_ think?” Credence demands.

“I think I should have protected you,” Graves says, blunt as a hammer. “I knew what that woman was doing to you and I could have given you a safe place to live, but I didn’t, because it was against the law. I think I did betray you.”

Credence scrambles up, shaking his head. “No…”

Graves pulls him in close and presses a quick, firm kiss to his temple, against his hairline. He’s making himself late for the President to say this. “I’m sorry you were pushed so far before anyone helped you. I’m sorry the law got in my way.” The next words are spoken against Credence’s ear, a secret only for him. “Next time, it won’t.”

*

 _Truth: You don’t know what_ _is_ _true and what_ _is_ _false any more._ _You don’t know what to believe._

_You believe in him._

**Author's Note:**

> At the moment I think there will be two more parts in this series - we shall see if I can keep to that!
> 
> This work has been [translated into German](https://www.fanfiktion.de/s/59147997000351b829f889d1/1/Like-a-Wind-Like-a-Ghost-) by RenKai.


End file.
